


What Christmas Is All About

by czarina_kathryn



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Christmas Eve, Christmas Tree, Clint's Sad Childhood, Feelstide 2014, First Kiss, Fix-It, Get Together, Gift Exchange, Happy Ending, M/M, Pining, perceived character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-01 03:43:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2758286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/czarina_kathryn/pseuds/czarina_kathryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn’t that Clint didn’t like the Christmas season, because he did.<br/>But the actual day of Christmas? Well, he just didn’t get it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Christmas Is All About

All of Clint’s Christmases had been much the same. The transitions his life had gone through (many of them drastic) from his parent’s tiny house to the orphanage to the circus to the ranks of the mercenaries and finally to SHIELD – well, they just hadn’t changed Christmas all that much. 

Clint fondly remembered his first December at SHIELD, where he’d felt safe and was given a warm place to sleep and more food than anyone could ever eat. He’d thought, in the days leading up to the 25th, that Christmas might be different that year. It really hadn’t been.

After that, Clint had found himself wondering if perhaps it was naïve to think people ever felt the way books and movies said they did. Maybe it wasn’t normal to look forward to Christmas or to have trouble getting to sleep in anticipation of the day to come. 

Or maybe it was all true, and the real problem was Clint. 

It wasn’t that Clint didn’t like the Christmas season, because he did. He liked the trees with their welcoming pine scents and the lights twinkling brightly in the night; he even liked the over played Christmas songs, humming and dancing along with them. 

But the actual day of Christmas, he just didn’t get it. He’d never understood or felt the emotions that others seemed to. Christmas Day just marked the end of all the things he actually liked about the season. 

It was possible that he’d over thought the whole issue - more than possible, really. After far too much introspection (which the SHIELD shrinks would have loved to been privy to), Clint decided his unrealistic expectations for Christmas Day could be traced back to a single fuzzy childhood memory. The memory was of a children’s Christmas play and he didn’t remember much of the content, but there had definitely been whole songs about being unable to sleep, about sneaking down to look at presents, and about being excited for Christmas Day. 

While memories of the play itself were sketchy at best, there’s nothing fuzzy about his memory of the visceral confusion that had overwhelmed him. He could still feel his gut cramping with bewilderment over 30 years later. After all, why would anyone care to know what color socks or hand-me-down toy they’d gotten this year? Sneaking down to look at them, being excited – well, it just didn’t make any sense. 

As he’d grown up, it had finally dawned on him that children who were not raised by abusive drunks and who were not in an orphanage, maybe had a little bit more to look forward too than socks that didn’t have holes in them yet (not that those weren’t useful, they definitely were). So maybe that was the key difference. 

At SHIELD he’d gotten a couple of gifts handed to him over the years, first by Coulson and later by Nat, Maria, Fury, and Jasper. He still hadn’t had any trouble sleeping, knowing that the little stack of presents was sitting on the chair next to his door. 

After some more consideration, Clint had decided that maybe having a tree to put the presents under made a difference, so the next year he’d set up a small tree and covered it in tinsel and multicolored lights. 

He liked the tree. He left the glittering lights on while he slept, letting the warm glow lull him to sleep. When he put his presents under the tree, he felt a warm flush of pleasure at how complete and homey it looked. 

He’d still fallen right to sleep on Christmas Eve, his eyes drifting closed as he stared at the tree, wondering why he didn’t feel the need to know what was in each present – was more than content to wait until tomorrow to uncover their secrets. 

But he liked the tree, so it made sense to keep setting it up. And after he moved off base to his own crappy apartment, he even bought a real tree, so he could smell the fresh fir scent while he watched Dog Cops. Or even as he lay in bed, the door open, allowing the faint light from his tree to shine into the bedroom. 

The Christmas after the Battle of New York, Clint was still living in his old apartment. He’d been resisting the proposed move into Avengers Tower for many reasons, but prime among them was the desire to have his own space during the holiday season. Because all he could think about was that there would be one less present under his tree this year (metaphorically, anyways, since he’d actually gotten a lot more presents, as the Avengers proceeded to bombarded him with boxes wrapped in shiny paper and covered in purple bows).

Clint still felt like there was a gaping hole in his life, a hole that all this time had been filled by Phil Coulson without Clint ever realizing it. He’d never even noticed how far Coulson (oh, who was he kidding, Phil) was insinuated into his life, his habits (his heart) until he was gone. And now Clint was left alone to wrestle with the thought that Phil had died without ever knowing that Clint (with all his flaws and mistakes) loved him more than life itself. That Phil had died without Clint even admitting it to himself. 

It hurt. 

It hurt a lot. 

Waking up Christmas morning, Clint rolled out of bed and shuffled to the kitchen to start his coffee machine. He looked at his tree and felt the familiar trill of pleasure at how nice it looked this year. He looked at the presents and … felt nothing really. 

There were a lot of them this year, but he honestly didn’t care. There was nothing he desperately wanted or needed (well, there was something, someone, he needed, but he didn’t think even a billionaire like Stark could bring people back from the dead), so what was the point? 

As his coffee finished percolating, Clint poured himself a generous cup and curled up in the corner of his couch. He sat there looking at his tree and tried to psych himself up for opening the presents. If he showed up to Christmas lunch at the Tower without opening them, he could only imagine how disappointed his teammates would be. And, no matter how he felt about presents, he never wanted to let his friends down.

It was then that his eyes landed on a small box, wrapped in sparkly purple snowflake paper. He was surprised, because none of the other presents shared that paper, and he couldn’t remember putting it under the tree at all. In fact, he was quite sure he had not put it under the tree. 

An icy shard of fear ran down his spine and he sat very still for a moment. Then sanity reasserted itself and he realized that the likely culprit was Nat, and not a terrorist or Loki or someone else out to kill him. Also, it was a little small to be a bomb. 

Clint’s unhelpfully paranoid brain chimed in that it could still be an infectious or pathogenic agent. But even if it were, there was no way Clint would ever call in a bio-containment crew (on Christmas Day, no less) for a tiny box that was probably left by his best friend. 

Clint got off the couch and went back to the bedroom to dig through the sheets for his phone. Finally locating it, he sent a text to Nat. 

“Haha. Very funny. Stop breaking into my place. P.S. Merry Christmas” 

Out of sheer pigheadedness, Clint decided to open the tiny present last. Just to prove to Nat that she hadn’t gotten to him (not that she was here, but she probably had ways of knowing (after all, she kind of seemed to know everything)). 

Clint had unwrapped a nice pile of socks (and why did everyone think he needed socks?), new arrows, a nice cashmere scarf (that would probably be irreparably destroyed if Clint ever tried to wear it outside), and a Steve Rogers original artwork. Soon, the only present left was the tiny box. 

Clint carefully slit the paper (you could reuse it, after all, and he didn’t have any saved with this nice purple snowflake pattern) and revealed a small white box. 

His phone chimed, so Clint grabbed it off the arm of the couch to see it was Nat replying to him. 

“I haven’t broken into your rat trap in over two weeks. If you need help, blink twice. Also - I’m always funny.” 

New worries about bioterrorism danced in front of Clint’s eyes, but seeing as he’d already unwrapped the box, there didn’t seem to be much point in refusing to open it. 

Pulling off the lid, Clint was momentarily confused by what he saw. Then he realized it was the white fluffy stuff people used to protect jewelry, so he gingerly lifted that off and peered at what was revealed underneath. 

It was a dog tag, a single one, not a pair, not a chain, just a tag. Clint could feel his nose wrinkling up in confusion. Then he saw the name imprinted on the metal and every good feeling he’d had that morning was lost in a overwhelming wave of pain and regret and more than a little anger at whoever the heartless bastard was, who had decided Christmas would be a good time to give Clint a dog tag that had once belonged to Phil Coulson. 

Clint was still lying where he’d collapsed on the floor, when his phone chimed again half an hour later. He was clutching the dog tag so tightly that his hand ached and his brain felt fuzzy. Slowly, Clint reached out and tilted the phone screen off the floor so he could read the text. It was predictably from Nat. 

“If you don’t respond in the next minute I will be breaking into your rat trap. Are you ok?”

Clint levered himself up and poked at his phone one handed, unwilling (unable) to let go of the tag. 

“I’m fine. See you at lunch.”

Glancing over at the tiny box that had delivered so much pain, Clint realized there was a piece of paper still wedged into the bottom. 

Scrabbling it open with his free hand, Clint felt his breath stop. 

“I’m on Level 7 need-to-know lock down, but I had to let you know that I miss you. Please don’t tell Fury about this. Merry Christmas. Phil” 

It was impossible. 

Impossible. 

But it was Phil’s handwriting. 

And it was undeniably his dog tag. 

It shouldn’t be possible, but maybe, just maybe it was. 

Clint kept the dog tag clenched tightly in his hand as he fashioned a crude necklace out of twine. Once the tag was settled around his neck, he felt better about letting go of it, although his fingers kept straying back to touch the metal. Reassuring himself that it was still there. 

He kept staring down at the tag resting next to his heart, unable to bring himself to stop. His brain kept trying to tell him that it couldn’t be. 

But his heart, his traitorous heart, was filling with hope. 

Clint made it to lunch on time. Nat spent the meal giving him odd looks that Clint tried to ignore. It felt important to keep this a secret. As if saying the words might make it all disappear. 

In the months and weeks that followed, Clint tried to wait patiently. If Phil really was on Level 7 lock down, then there was no telling when it would end or when Clint might be read in on it – especially if Fury was calling the shots. 

Clint bought a nice silver chain for the dog tag and wore it constantly around his neck. No one commented, but no one got close enough to read the name on it either, so perhaps they assumed it was Clint’s. 

It was a comfort to wrap his hand around the tag when he woke up at night alone in the dark, shaking from nightmares he couldn’t bring himself to name. 

A little over a year after the Battle of New York, Clint moved into the Tower. It really was nice and an amazing improvement over his old place. The main draw back was that there were always people around him in the Tower and he worried that Phil wouldn’t come find him if other people were around. 

As summer turned into fall, Clint was finally forced to realize that Phil wasn’t going to come find him (or allow Clint to find him, since Clint was definitely looking). Clint reluctantly had to accept that the dog tag message was a one-time thing and, in all likelihood, he would never see Phil again. 

Either that or Phil was really dead. Dead like everyone said he was. Dead like he was supposed to be. 

Clint tried to keep that in mind, but he so desperately wanted Phil to be alive that he found himself clutching at any straw available, no matter how flimsy. And with the dog tag a reassuringly solid presence under his hand, sometimes it seemed like the straws weren’t so weak after all. 

As Thanksgiving passed, Clint had another thought. Maybe the dog tag hadn’t been a one-time impulse. Maybe it was the sort of gift that could be attributed to a once-yearly impulse. 

The kind of impulsive gesture brought on by Christmas trees and snow and the season of giving. Because if that were true, there was a chance that Phil would be back this year. That he’d be back to leave another present under the tree for Clint. Maybe, just maybe, Phil would be driven to violate his lock down because he wanted Clint to know that he missed him. 

It was almost terrifying to contemplate, but it was possible. And the tumble of thoughts and emotions that came with it kept Clint awake long into the night. 

Clint wasn’t stupid, though, so he forced himself to acknowledge that it was unlikely Phil would be back (or be not-dead, at all). 

So as a compromise, Clint made himself a promise. If Phil didn’t leave him a gift this year, then he would accept that Phil was dead (or, at least, accept that Phil was able to live without Clint). And that would be the end, no more searching archives or stalking Fury for proof. He would learn to live without Phil. 

However, in spite of the promise he’d made, all the things Clint had ever heard about Christmas began to make sense. 

His desire for Christmas to arrive almost eclipsed his ability to think. The only thing he wanted was for it to be Christmas Day already. 

As a distraction, he threw himself into holiday preparations like a man possessed. Christmas tree? Why yes, he’d take two. Tinsel, also times two. Wreaths, garlands, lights, he’d take those times four. Nat seemed suspicious, but she didn’t interfere, so Clint didn’t even bother trying to keep a lid on his enthusiasm.

If he wasn’t decorating, he was baking gingerbread angels or buying his teammates too many presents. 

He was also putting together a present for Phil. Or, at least, for the potential of Phil. Clint scoured antique stores relentlessly until he found a suitable Captain America trading card. He ordered a dog tag with his name on it, and wrapped it with the card in the little white box from last year, with the same purple snowflake paper. He put it under the tree without a tag. Confident, that if Phil showed up, he’d know it was for him and him alone, and that he’d understand the message.

By Christmas Eve, Clint was practically crawling out of his skin with anticipation. He had no earthly idea how he would ever get to sleep. 

He’d spent the day volunteering at the local group home, which had distracted him a little. Then there had been a team dinner and Christmas movie, so he had actually made it to 11 pm without keeling over from nerves, but now he was alone in his suite and his brain was racing. 

Hoping it would calm him down; Clint changed into his sleep pants and crawled into bed. Maybe if he could just fall asleep, then he would wake up and it would be Christmas already. 

He closed his eyes and tried to relax, let his mind drift a little, felt sleep tug at the edges of his awareness. 

He snapped fully awake with a start. He had fallen asleep. Surely it must be almost morning. He glanced at the clock. 

11:45 pm. 

Oh god, he wasn’t going to make it. He would lose his mind; there was no other option. He’d be crawling up the walls (literally) any second now.

Suddenly and with crystal clarity, Clint understood that long ago Christmas play. He understood it all. 

He was out of bed and tugging a shirt over his head before he could think better of it. 

Maybe he was no longer a child, but Clint had never let that stop him before. So Clint, a grown-ass man, was darn well going to sneak downstairs and figure out if Santa (or Phil) had left the present he was so desperately waiting for under the tree. 

After all, he rationalized, it was practically midnight - essentially it was Christmas. Or it would be, by the time Clint snuck down the hall and three flights of stairs to the common area. 

Or he could take the vents. Right, that would be faster. He’d take the vents.

Clint silently dropped into the kitchen five minutes later. The clock on the stove told him it was 11:55 pm. The red-tinged glow of Christmas lights shown through the doorway, illuminating the world in a soft light. 

On silent feet, Clint crept over to the common room door and took in the vision that was the tree. It was beautiful, all the time he’d spent to set it up and decorate it, validated by this quiet moment. Presents tumbled on the floor under the branches, haphazardly, yet lovingly, placed there by many hands. 

Stockings hung over the modern fireplace; they bulged with gifts that hadn’t been there when Clint last saw them. The gas fire leapt beneath them, adding warmth to the twinkling lights from the tree. 

Clint felt a sense of peace suffuse him. And against all odds, he knew that it would be ok. Even if the present he wanted wasn’t there and Clint had to keep his promise to himself and leave the dream of Phil Coulson behind, he’d somehow manage.

Pulling the dog tag out from under his shirt, Clint twisted it, so the low light cast the beloved letters of Phil’s name into relief. Clint let his fingers trace them, before dropping the tag to rest out in the open for once. 

Feeling incredibly childish, Clint tiptoed over to the sofa and crouched down behind the arm, eyes scanning the presents. His heart clenched in his chest, as he spotted the distinctive purple snowflake box, nestled between two larger boxes. 

Scanning the pile more intently, Clint looked for any new presents; it was possible (although, unlikely) that Phil had missed his gift. There were a couple of new boxes, but the wrapping paper matched presents that had already been under the tree earlier. 

So that was that. 

Clint let his eyes close and leaned his head heavily on the side of the couch. It shouldn’t be surprising. Part of him had always known this was how it would end. 

The soft almost imperceptible sound of a footstep, intruded on Clint’s melancholy. And Clint ruthlessly crushed a flare of hope. It was past time for him to stop torturing himself like that. It was probably one of the other Avengers come to play Santa for their teammates. 

Clint stayed crouched in the shadow of the couch, not wanting to reveal himself. Needing just a bit more time to compose his emotions. 

A pained noise caused Clint to quickly blink his eyes open. His entire body readying to spring to aid of whichever teammate needed it. 

The scene that met his eyes froze him in place, scared that a single movement would break the spell and it would all disappear into nothing. 

There was a man, a man in a black suit, a suit that looked velvety in the halo of Christmas lights. He was crouched down in front of the tree, clutching the purple snowflake box in a pale shaking hand. 

It wasn’t just his hand that was shaking either - his whole body seemed to be trembling. Another pained whimper tore from the man’s throat before Clint realized that the man was crying. 

Phil Coulson was crying. 

Clint was scrambling forward on hands and knees before his brain had even come up with the idea. 

Wrapping his arms around Phil was one of the scariest things that Clint had ever done. Convinced, as Clint was, that the second he touched him Phil would disappear forever.

But Phil felt real and warm and alive, as he startled under Clint’s hands, grabbing Clint’s arms with the clear intention of fighting him off. But then Phil froze; going frighteningly still, and Clint couldn’t help the reflexive tightening of his arms around Phil’s chest. 

But it was ok because Phil’s grip gentled on Clint’s arms and slid down them until his hands came to Clint’s. 

Clint shook in earnest as Phil’s fingers caressed the backs of his hands and pressed them closer to his chest. 

“Clint.”

That voice. Oh god, that voice. Clint hadn’t even realized how badly he’d needed to hear it until that moment. 

Clint leant forward, resting his forehead on Phil’s back, as his shakes became uncontrollable.

“Phil.” He barely got it out, but he had to say it. Needed to respond to Phil’s call. 

Phil twisted in his arms and suddenly they were clutching each other and Clint was losing his mind it felt so amazing. 

“You were dead,” Clint whispered into the space between them.

“I’m sorry, Clint. I’m so sorry. I was a fool. I should have found you. I … Fury …” 

“It’s ok,” Clint said, anxious to assuage some of the guilt bleeding from Phil’s words.

“No, it’s not ok,” Phil said, pulling back, “I let him talk me into keeping it a secret, that was my mistake and I need to take responsibility for it.”

“You’re here now?” Clint couldn’t even help the way his voice tilted up at the end, turning what should have been a statement into a question. Clint’s fingers reflexively tightened on Phil’s shoulders, trying to keep him there, with Clint. Phil’s hands responded by gripping at Clint’s waist, but his eyes told another story. 

“I can’t stay, Clint. I have to be back on the bus before the others wake up.” 

Clint wanted to beg him to stay, but he knew that wouldn’t be fair. Phil seemed as upset about it as Clint was. Clint wished he had prepared something to say, something important and profound that could make up for the possibility that they might never see each other again. 

There seemed like so many things he’d wanted to say over the past year and a half, but only one of them was still in his mind. 

“I get it,” Clint said, “I do. I just … my biggest regret when you – died – was that I’d never told you. So I just want you to know, that I love you and that I’m pretty sure I’ll always love you.”

Phil’s eyes went impossibly wide and suddenly Clint was being yanked forward into a bruising embrace, as Phil gasped for breath and whispered disjointed half formed words into Clint’s ear. 

“God, Clint,” Phil said, after a semblance of control had returned, “You have to know, you have to know, that I love you too. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Clint had to pull back from the embrace at those words and search Phil’s face for the hint of a lie. 

“I love you,” Phil said, his voice so simple, so sure. His face so open and his eyes, oh god, his eyes so loving. 

Clint kissed him. He couldn’t help himself. He melted into Phil, wrapped his arms around Phil’s shoulders and let his lips settle against Phil’s. And best of all, Phil’s mouth moved against Clint’s own and he was able to kiss the whispered “I love you” right off of Phil’s lips.

Clint pulled back practically sobbing for breath, wanting nothing more than to keep kissing Phil forever. Perhaps it was that feeling that caused him to utter the next thoughtless word.

“Stay.”

Phil’s eyes were tortured as he looked at Clint. And it wasn’t surprising that Phil broke eye contact first. His gaze dropped to Clint’s chest and he trailed his hand up from Clint’s waist to the dog tag - to his dog tag. 

Phil ran his fingers lightly over it, before pressing the tag to Clint’s chest with his whole palm. 

Clint lifted his hand from Phil’s shoulder and held Phil’s hand in place over his heart. 

“I understand,” Clint said, his voice breaking only a little. 

They stayed like that for an agonizing minute before Phil seemed to shake himself and gracefully stand up, letting their connection break. The magical moment they’d shared apparently coming to an end. 

Clint took a deep breath. He’d thought that having to accept Phil was dead would be the most difficult prospect, but clearly he’d been wrong. How could he ever let Phil leave knowing that Phil loved him? Knowing that part of Phil wanted to stay?

Phil pulled his phone out of his pocket and with his usual economy of motion tapped something out.

Done with that, Phil looked down into Clint’s eyes and tossed his phone carelessly onto the sofa. Hands free, he reached down to help Clint up. And once Clint had his feet under him, Phil caressed his cheek with a heartbreakingly gentle hand. 

“I would love to stay,” Phil said, eyes tender. 

“But …” Clint supplied, when Phil didn’t continue. 

“No buts. I’m staying,” Phil said. 

“The lock down,” Clint protested. 

“I don’t care,” Phil said, his eyes never wavering in their conviction, “I just quit my job, so I can stay here as long as I like.”

“Oh shit,” Clint mumbled, his knees going weak in a worrying way. But it was okay because Phil was there to wrap him in a strong steady embrace. 

“I love you,” Phil whispered again, this time into Clint’s hair. 

“Yes,” Clint said, the word ripped from his quickly healing heart, “Yes, I love you. Stay.”

“Forever, if you’ll have me,” Phil replied. 

Clint couldn’t have stopped himself from kissing Phil for the entire world. 

Later they would have to deal with the Avengers (who were shocked to find out that Phil was still alive, but arguably more shocked at Clint’s inability to keep his hands off of Phil (and vice versa)), with Fury (who was not cool with the quitting via text thing, but was unfazed by Clint and Phil’s mutual grabby hands), with the new team Phil had assembled during his lock down (also not cool with the quitting, but very intrigued by Clint), but for the moment all of those things fell away.

And all that mattered was that it was Christmas, and after 42 years Clint finally understood what it was all about. And he’d been given the one present he’d never dared dream of having: A heart, in exchange for his own.

**Author's Note:**

> Feelstide Prompt #20: Sneaking into the living room at the Tower to raid stockings in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve  
> Sorry, no stockings were raided, but some presents were definitely ruffled.


End file.
